


informed consent

by ladyofrosefire



Category: L.A. By Night (Web Series)
Genre: Blood Drinking, Dinner dates, Don't copy to another site, F/M, Mild Sexual Content, Vampire/Ghoul relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-13
Updated: 2020-01-13
Packaged: 2021-02-19 12:27:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,720
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22244383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofrosefire/pseuds/ladyofrosefire
Summary: There’s a note in the breast pocket, alongside the blue silk pocket square. It’s the same color as her hair, Greg observes and tries not to curse at himself for noticing it.He wonders if he should make jokes to himself about Alice In Wonderland and tags that say ‘drink me’ and if that would make him feel any better. Probably not, even if getting into that suit feels a lot like labeling himself the same way. But she’s neverdemandedthat of him before, and he doesn’t think she will now. He pulls the card from the suit pocket and opens it.It reads, simply:8:00, Providence.XOA dinner date, a conversation, steps taken toward whatever they are becoming because Greg has no idea what that is.
Relationships: Nelli G/Gregory Demetrios
Comments: 24
Kudos: 41





	informed consent

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Damoselmaledisant and Vamppeach for beta reading, and also to NotAFicWriter, to whom I also owe an apology for accidentally dragging her into this fandom by talking about bodyguard relationships.

It starts with a black garment bag delivered to Greg’s apartment. The lining is rose-patterned, black on red. He has to go and wash his hands in the dingy sink before he can bring himself to touch the suit inside. The wool is softer than anything he’s ever owned, the lining is definitely silk, and he has no doubt it will fit perfectly. Bad tailoring annoys Nelli.

There’s a note in the breast pocket, alongside the blue silk pocket square. It’s the same color as her hair, Greg observes and tries not to curse at himself for noticing it.

He wonders if he should make jokes to himself about Alice In Wonderland and tags that say ‘drink me’ and if that would make him feel any better. Probably not, even if getting into that suit feels a lot like labeling himself the same way. But she’s never _demanded_ that of him before, and he doesn’t think she will now. He pulls the card from the suit pocket and opens it.

It reads, simply:

_8:00, Providence._   
_XO_

He stops to get flowers on the way there. The shop has roses and daffodils, and he stares at them for too long before going for the really nice ones in the back, the ones that actually smell like roses and last a while longer. The little plastic container of water on the end of the stem ruins the look a little, but it’s fine. He just has to not snap it.

The maître d’ shows him to Nelli’s table without having to be asked, which is… unsettling. He checks his grip on the rose and the angle of his tie.

“Ms. Griffith,” the man almost _bows_. Maybe it’s hypnosis, or maybe it’s just Nelli. Greg couldn’t blame him either way.

She wears red satin that spills down over her chest like fresh blood and clings to her so his mouth waters. Her hat is off, but she still has her gloves on and that claw ring. And she smiles when she sees him. Maybe she can hear the way his heart thumps, but he pretends she can’t as he holds out the rose.

“For me?” she takes it and brings it to her nose, inhaling deeply. “Oh, Daffodil, you shouldn’t have.”

The way she smiles, the way her eyelashes dip, makes her seem like she would be blushing if she still hard a heartbeat. It’s a hell of an act.

Greg sits down next to her and stares at the plate in front of him. “A restaurant, huh? It’s not gonna be weird, you not eating?”

“I’m good at hiding it.”

“Right.”

They lapse into silence for a moment. Greg cracks the menu, just to give himself something to do, and winces when he sees that most of the prices aren’t even written down. _Christ_. With all the vampire shit, the blood and the powers, everything _he_ can do, someone flinging money around shouldn’t bother him. But he shifts uncomfortably in his suit and lets the menu fall closed again.

“Shit. Okay. What would you pick if you could?” Her expression flickers, but settles on something pleased, plotting. Greg doesn’t let himself linger on what he’s gotten himself into. “What’s the occasion?”

Nelli picks up the rose and spins it between her fingers. “I… owed you a conversation.” Then she raises it to her nose again and inhales. “This is nice.”

“I’m glad you like it.” He rakes a hand back through his hair. “What conversation?”

She presses a finger to her lips. The waiter is on his way over, a napkin draped over his arm like in movies. Greg listens while Nelli orders, phrasing it as if they plan to share dishes, and mentions wine. He won’t cover for her there, no matter how tempting it is.

Greg waits for Nelli to turn and nod before he leans toward her. “Well?”

“You wanted to know what this was, between us. Trust, and all that.”

“Are you gonna spike my food, then?” Greg regrets it as soon as he says it. Not for the danger, but because of how Nelli flinches and stares at the tablecloth. “…Sorry.”

“I was… actually going to talk to you about… trying to give you a little more leeway.”

“A little more trust.”

She shrugs. “Sure.”

And a little more truth. He hopes. “Victor’s gonna hate it.”

Nelli laughs, sharp and bright, and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Oh, I’m sure he will. He might just have to live with it. Besides, Daffodil…” she reaches over and runs her fingers down his arm, claw ring rasping against the fine wool of his suit. “It’s not like I’m getting rid of you.”

Greg doesn’t know if he likes the way that makes his stomach flip over. He huffs quietly. “Good to know.”

It’s better than being dead, even if he’s being lied to. He thinks.

He wants a fucking drink.

“That suit looks good on you.” Nelli runs her hand back up his arm and squeezes his shoulder before drawing her hand away.

“You picked it,” he manages not to grumble.

A smug smile curves her mouth. “I did.”

The wine arrives along with oysters, and Greg keeps himself from raising his eyebrows until after the waiter leaves. It’s not like they don’t already think this is a date. But he knows the reference. Oysters to oral, leading him to how she might taste. Blood, probably, but her blood—her _vitae_ —has always been sweet, and _God_ , he’s clearly fucked in the head because it’s making him twitch in his pants.

 _Christ_.

The wine is good, although his palate probably isn’t letting him really appreciate it. He doesn’t choke on it when he notices Nelli’s gaze on his throat, which he counts as a personal victory.

“So, the… bond.” He puts the glass back down. “How’s that going to work.”

“Oh, that. We just stick to bottled from now on. You’ll start feeling the difference in… about a month.”

Both of them pause. Greg has another oyster and doesn’t think about double entendres. Nelli smells the rose again.

“You know,” she muses, twirling the stem between gloved fingers, “most people need to drink three times before they feel that loyal. You must be something special.”

“Yeah,” he mutters and reminds himself not to just knock back his wine.

Dinner is good. Greg doesn’t forget that Nelli isn’t eating, but she’s good at covering for it, shifting the shells on the plate, and then fiddling with her knife and fork and the other courses. He plays along, offering his glass and watching while she smells and pretends to sip. His fingers brush hers as he takes it back, the satin of her gloves smooth and cool. He shivers and takes a sip on the side opposite her crimson lip-print.

Greg wouldn’t call how he’s feeling _relaxed_. Not in this restaurant and this suit. But he’s gotten past the point of wondering whether she’s going to rip his throat out when he turns over what the hell she wants from him.

He’s been doing that a lot lately.

They don’t stay for dessert. Greg helps Nelli back into her coat, the smell of her perfume hitting him as he leans down. He wants to bury his face in her neck and inhale. There’s still this _thing_ between them, and maybe it’s the blood bond, and maybe it’s something else. It could be both. Maybe he wouldn’t know, but fuck, his throat is dry with it.

She takes his arm as they walk outside.

One of Victor’s cars is there for them, which is… interesting. Greg doesn’t know this driver’s name, but he nods when she opens the door for Nelli. Then he joins her in the back seat. They pull away from the curb almost before he has his seatbelt buckled.

“What’s your address again?”

Greg starts to protest that she knows already when he realizes— that’s the point, isn’t it? Options. Trust. Free will. Jesus _fucking_ Christ, he’s not sure he wants half of those things right now.

He draws a careful breath. “You have somewhere you need to be?”

“Not right now.” She tips her head and rests her arm on the window as she looks at him.

He finds himself unable to look away from her, the light catching on her face and on her hair. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse. “Take me back to yours.”

Nelli blinks. Then she casts a quick glance toward the driver, who is definitely listening, and probably plans to tell Victor what she’s heard. “You know my address,” she says, simply, and the driver flicks on the turn signal.

Nelli’s apartment is— _exactly_ how he had pictured it. Modern, tasteful, weirdly, creepily neat. The kind of space she won’t have to update for decades, if ever. The couch probably costs enough that he should be afraid to sit on it, but it’s not in his face about it. There’s no minibar, and he’d bet the refrigerator in the next room is empty if there even is a refrigerator.

It’s perfectly _her_ , though. Nelli settles onto one end of the couch and props her chin on her gloved hand, quirking a brow at him. “So, why are we here, Daffodil?”

She’s really going to make him say it.

Except that’s the thing. She isn’t _making_ him do anything. He can say no to her, he can argue. If he wanted, he could turn around, walk out the door, and wave down a taxi to take him home. Then he could get really, _really_ drunk and pretend he never even thought about doing this.

Instead, he shrugs off his jacket.

The way his heart kicks, it’s like he’s just taken off body armor. Nelli’s eyebrows arch, and his whole body tries to freeze up, but he keeps himself moving. His jacket ends up folded and draped over the back of the nearest chair.

“Greg…” Nelli shifts, drawing herself upright, pulling back on the couch even as her gaze fixes on his fumbling attempts to unfasten his cuff.

He drops the link into his pants pocket. “Come on. You already—dressed me up, wined and dined me. Might as well. I’ll put out after a date like that.” Her expression sours, and Greg sighs. “Look, I’m asking you to, alright? No compulsion. I want it. And I think you do, too.”

“ _Fuck_ ,” she shakes her head, and he pauses. “Are you sure?”

“I’m not asking you to turn me—”

“ _God_ , no.” Nelli shakes her head. Then she meets his gaze. “Okay, if you’re sure, then say it.”

He’s in front of her, now, one cuff of his shirt undone, knees trembling until he has to lock them so he doesn’t drop to them at her feet. “Bite me.”

All the breath rushes out of her on a long, shaky sigh. “Thank you.” She curls her hand around his wrist, fingers cool on his skin. “Sit down.”

He does. But rather than raising his wrist to her mouth, Nelli leans in, toward his mouth, and pauses just before she would have kissed him. He closes the last of the gap. Her tongue steals into his mouth, and she’s still cold. It doesn’t occur to him to care. He tangles his fingers in her hair and kisses back, swallowing a moan when the points of her teeth catch his lower lip. She runs her hands down his chest and through his hair. His tie loosens and then comes off.

Greg’s other hand falls to Nelli’s hip and draws her in. She shifts onto his lap, skirt bunching up between them. He does groan, then, squeezing his eyes shut. Her lips curl against his a moment before she draws away. Her lipstick still looks perfect, even if he can feel traces of it on his mouth. He rubs a thumb beneath her lip anyway. Her hands fall to the buttons of his shirt, undoing each in turn. Greg almost tells her to just rip it before he remembers who he’s dealing with and has to swallow a laugh. She lets him sit forward enough to shrug it off, chasing the slide of it down his arms. It gets caught on one wrist for a moment before they get that cufflink undone, too.

Then Nelli guides his head back with a hand in his hair, and Greg stops breathing.

“Yes?” she whispers, lips by his ear.

He swallows hard, the arch of his neck making it feel strained. “Yes.”

Nelli brushes her lips down his throat, and Greg has time to wrap an arm around her waist before her fangs sink in. He still fights it, even though it doesn’t hurt for more than a moment. Not her, but the feeling itself. It’s better this time, somehow, waves of something more than pleasure spreading through him with each heartbeat. He’s making—some kind of noise, gasping or groaning, or both. She pets at his hair and at his chest until he relaxes beneath her. Greg sighs, closes his eyes, and gives in. Nelli’s fingers tighten in his hair as she drinks in slow mouthfuls. He pulls her closer, arching under her and crying out and as he clutches at the back of her dress.

It’s so good it hurts.

Nelli pulls away, eventually. Maybe it’s only been a few moments. Greg melts against the couch with a groan, his head still tipped back. Her mouth covers the bite again only a second later, and he expects another wave of that rapture. He gets her tongue, instead, sliding over the puncture wounds and cleaning the blood from his neck before it can stain her couch. Then she sits up and reaches for a tissue to fix her lipstick. There has to be a smear of it left on his neck.

There’s also a sticky mess in his boxers.

“Ah…” Greg shifts, grimaces, “fuck.”

“Oh, Daffodil.” Nelli cups his cheek. “Go clean up. Leave the pants to soak. Just… come back, afterward?”

“Yeah. Sure.” For a moment, he hesitates. Then he leans in and kisses her on the mouth. The copper that meets his tongue is his own blood, and that bothers him a lot less than it should.

Greg gets up and goes to her bathroom, which is immaculate despite how many times she’s washed blood off of herself in the shower. He cleans up as quickly as he can and, after a moment’s hesitation, rinses out his boxers and hangs them over the shower bar, as well.

He feels less weird than he expected after letting her drink from him. Last time was—odd. The audience had not helped. Now, he mostly feels warm and awash with endorphins and maybe a little woozy. He sways a bit as he steps back out into the living room, wrapped up in the oversized—for her—robe hanging from the back of the bathroom door.

“Greg?” Nelli calls. While he was out of the room, she kicked off her shoes and now has her legs tucked up under her as she leans on the arm of the couch. She reaches over and pats the other cushion.

“I’m fine. Just, you know. Lost some blood.” He joins her, sighing as he settles against the cushions. For a moment, he looks at her, considering. Then he holds an arm out to her in a silent offer.

Nelli lets it hang for a moment before she moves and leans against his chest, head on his shoulder. She seems comfortable there. After a moment, she brings a hand up and runs manicured nails through his hair. “Do you… need anything?”

Greg shrugs the shoulder she isn’t leaning on. “Orange juice? I figure I lost about a pint.”

She hums. “I’ll send someone out for some.”

“Think I could get a pair of pants while they’re at it?”

Nelli laughs, a little breathless, definitely surprised. Then she tips her face up and brushes her lips over his cheek. “Okay. Just stay here, for now.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He closes his eyes. “No problem there.”

And, strangely enough, there isn’t. He gets comfortable on her couch, his arm curled around her, and her fingers making slow, steady passes through his hair, and decides to stay.

**Author's Note:**

> The author thrives on comments! ♥️💙♥️


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